


Dealing With The Witches Of Liverpool (also known as the beatles witch AU)

by itsmaz410



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, Beatles Witch AU, Blood and Injury, Cavern Club, Elemental Magic, Historical Inaccuracy, Incorporations of Wiccan traditions, Magic Powers, Only for a lil while, Only some!!, Touring, Witch AU, angst angst angst, because im rly not gunna be doing history right with this lmao, brian epstein gets angry, chapters added over time, itll all cheer up later on i promise you, more tags to be added over time lads, only once!, teddy boy, the boys dont understand, then its early 60's, these boys are jus a bit all over the place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-12-24 01:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmaz410/pseuds/itsmaz410
Summary: The unspoken rule was to never tell a single soul.





	1. Liverpool Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is it. the official story for my witch!beatles au. 
> 
> let's do this. 
> 
> find more about this AU on my tumblr!  
@mazzy410

_It’s a blistering cold night in late December, nearing the end of the 50's, and the howling wind makes the tips of people's ears ache from the painful chill. The Liverpool streets are quite dark, dimly lit by flickering street-lamps, and it’s been drizzling rain. Suddenly, a man throws open a door, and four boys are thrown out into the street._

_“Paul, can’t ye jus’ stop burnin’ every set a’ drapes we come by? Why don’ ye try tha’ fer once, aye!” John, a sarcastic brunette whose gaze is sometimes rather chilling, scolds angrily as he and three other boys hurry quickly down the road that leads away from the brick building they had been accompanying for the last few days. They had been staying there to rest after performing every night at the Cavern Club, but now a rather dramatic dilemma had gotten them all thrown out. This had been the third time they’d been thrown from a building, too, and they were all getting sick of it._

_Paul, a baby faced brunette, stops suddenly, flicking his damp hair out of his eyes, arched eyebrows furrowed as he glares at John. “I dunno how ta! Y'know that I can’t even control this shit yet!”_

_Before John can eagerly reply with a biting comment (as he’s known to be rather good at doing that) a taller brunette with serious eyes steps forward, placing himself slightly in between the two. “Quit it, yeah? We need to find a place to stay.” _  
_Paul and John gaze at eachother for a moment, then step back. A raindrop rolls down John’s forehead. There’s a sense of tension, tension that’s been building, ever since the first time they were thrown from a supposed safe place to stay. _  
_“Right. C’mon, lads. C’mon, George.”_

_And the four boys carry on nervously down the road, leather jackets shining in the dim lamplights._


	2. Blessed Hideaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys practice their skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (THIS TOOK SO LONG IM SO SORRY!! i also have No Idea when the next chapter comes,, oops)  
tumblr: mazzy410

_(early 1960's)_

The building was created by roughened red bricks, towering high over the backstreets of Liverpool, though it was a skinny little building, the arched windows dusty and hidden by white cotton curtains. It had been abandoned a few years before, previously occupied by an academy of dancers. But it was in the current secretive usage of four boys.

An hour after the sunlight rises and shines over the city, a man wanders toward the building, though he does not enter, simply leaning against the rough bricks. He fidgets in his back-pocket, finally pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He’s waiting for the others, as he flicks his hand and a flame illuminates his skin as it dances upon his fingertip. He lights his cigarette, and with a little grin, he blows out the flame on his finger with ease.

Minutes later, 3 other men round the corner and begin to approach the building and the brunette who leans gently against it’s structure. They’re all brunettes, hands shoved in their pockets as they join the baby faced boy. One of them, the tallest, has flowers hanging out his back pocket, while another seems to have a slight golden glow to his figure, and the third has a leather bag in his hand, with a Ouija board poking out the top of it. The third man’s physical form is seeming to flicker weakly, changing his body to become slightly less visible, then strengthening quickly so that he can be seen.

“Aye, lads. We ready to go in?” The shorter male, the one with a soft, glowing light surrounding him, asks with a gleam in his eye. As they all nod, and the baby faced one scuffs out his cigarette under his shoe, they all enter the building.

The interior is actually rather different to a stereotypical abandoned building.

The boys seem to have made a impermanent space out of it, with a few rickety chairs that were stolen from the outdoor areas of restaurants scattered around, and a large wooden dining table set down the further end of the building. There’s some blankets and pillows too, taking up space in the far corner underneath a hanging light that’s jutting out of the wall. Somehow they had gotten the electricity to work for them. The walls had a few posters and photos stuck up upon them, but there was also lengths of thin dyed fabric that made the space all seem much less cold and lonely. There’s even a little chintz armchair, draped in more purple dyed fabric and pillows with intricately sewed cases. Stuck against the wall is a dusty bookshelf, that is crammed with books (all on witchcraft or similar subjects.) There’s a wooden door, that leads down to a basement, though it seems to be rarely used.

“Right, what are we thinkin’ of doin’, boys?” The babyfaced brunette asks, heading to the cozy little corner and flopping down on a pillow, dragging a blanket over his legs. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to be harnessing the element of fire and flames, but there’s a definite and undeniable glint of steady confidence in his intense gaze.  
The tallest of them, the one with flowers hanging from his pocket now joins the other man, lanky legs crossing as he sits close with his back pressed against the wall. In his hands, he’s twirling a daisy that seems to have sprouted right from his palm. “Practicing. We’ll get more control over our powers this way. Y’see what I’m on about, Paul?”  
Paul nods his head a little, though there’s a slight sense of nervousness in his action. By now, the other two men have also joined them, sitting close and snuggling in, so that they’re all at least touching in some way. That’s how these boys were, rather physically affectionate, never wanting to harm eachother. The worn leather bag that seemed to contain many different items was dragged over by the brunette who wore a crystal necklace, a smart grin upon his face.

The reason they gathered in this old abandoned building was to hide.  
Being witches was not an easy thing, and the fear people still held toward the mere existence of witches was still prominent, due to the advertising of horror films filled with witchcraft and many Halloween decorations displaying green skinned women with warts on their noses. When the four musicians had figured out that they were indeed the very thing that very many people feared, they were plagued with negative thoughts. Thoughts of wondering if they were truly good people, how terrifying if would be if people found out, and how far their powers could go.

That was why they were hidden away in the building on a sunny morning. To see what they were capable of.

“Who’s gunna go first?” Ringo, the man with startling blue eyes and the honey coloured glow that misted across his skin, asks as he rests his chin on his palm. The atmosphere changes, the air wavering with hesitancy, just a little more hesitancy than before. They all share anticipatory glances, excited energy thrumming in their veins, but there’s a definite shadow of fear and doubt hanging like a neon sign over their heads.  
For they had only been trying to hone in on their skills for a few months, and it was the main reason for why they kept getting banned from so many venues and hotels, due to them having almost no control over their newfound abilities. But they still tried. Many owners of the multiple joints were enraged when they saw that Paul had set a curtain on fire while he slept, or that John was even just flicking through a book about the history of witchcraft. People refused to accept any sense of supernatural happenings, often harming witches or just beating them mercilessly with their cruel and snide remarks.

But in this building was where they felt safe, for at least a few hours, every few days, where they could truly be themselves without fearing that they’ll be hurt or injured by a member of the public.

“Uh, I’ll go? Been practicing a bit,” George, the mysterious brunette with the daisy in his slender fingers, explains to the curious boys as he crouches to stand from their grouped tangle of limbs. They all shift, agreeing. They hadn’t checked on their powers in over a week, so they’re rather curious to see what George could do. John grins, his body now barely flickering as wildly as it had been previously, eyes watching George with a slight sense of awe.

George inhales deeply, standing tall with his mahogany coloured eyes falling shut, eyebrows furrowed as he begins to concentrate. He seems to struggle for a long moment, but after he flicks his tanned wrist sharply, seemingly trying to ‘jerk’ his powers awake, he’s got a vine curling down his arm, sneaking over his outstretched fingers as if it’s a snake. It creeps outward, where it slides onto Ringo’s knobbly fingers, causing all the boys to chuckle softly between them. George chews his lip, curling his fingers, and the vine zips right back to his hands, which are shaking. He’s clearly exerting a lot of his energy for this little trick. It’s no lie that they’re all immensely proud of George. It’s clear to see as they gaze at him with a smile, amazed by how much control he’s already harnessing toward his power. It was so damn hard to control these powers, it was like they had their own minds. But slowly, they’re learning to establish themselves as the ones in control.  
“Have ye, y’know, been researchin’?” John asks, watching as the vine begins to sprout out lilac flowers, blooming prettily in the dusty lighting. George’s dark eyes flick around to look at him with a curious gleam, tilting his head and letting his short hair curl round his ears. “Wha- Ah, ye mean the botanical research?”  
John nods, and Paul casually lights another cigarette with his fingertip, the flame illuminating the echoing space they’re all currently occupying.  
“Yeah, been doin’ quite a bit, here an’ there. An’ I’m growing more plants in the backyard, too, though I ain’t lettin’ me family see me at it.” George plucks a dainty violet that sprouted from the thick, dark green vine that’s twisting and wrapping around his torso and arms, and hands it to Ringo. And Ringo beams as he reaches for the violet, his body reacting instantaneously as he begins to glow again, a happy golden light clinging to his figure. It feels a little warm, like a lamp that has been lit for over an hour.  
“It’s beautiful, George,” Paul murmurs with a genuine smile.

After a minute, George then clears his throat, suddenly looking a little nervous, similar to how Paul had felt before. “Y’know about ..uhm, the death thing?” George asks, his hands now clasped, fingers stretched awkwardly as he begins to anxiously fidget. He doesn’t really like to think about his secondary ability, because it’s.. overwhelming. Harnessing the powers of life and death? Reviving things and also killing things? It’s far too much for an average guitarist to handle, he decides. Listen, he likes to say that his nature power is incredible. It makes him feel calm, whole, like this is (in a way) what he’s meant to do. But if he thinks about his secondary ability, he feels a little sick to his stomach.

The boys respond with a quick nod, easily sensing George’s sudden nauseated anxiety. George huffs out a deep sigh, as if he’s trying to ground his nerves, and asks a simple request, “Paul, can y’get me, uh, an insect or sumthin’?” And together they watch with baited breath as a black, shiny beetle scuttles up through the floorboards, looking as if it’s on a very important mission.  
George’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he forcefully points a shaking finger at the beetle, shutting his eyes. And as he looks away, focused, there’s a little rattling noise, and soon the beetle shrivels up with it’s tiny, thin legs up in the air. There’s a bit of quiet, and when George finally glances back to the space that the bug had previously occupied, someone’s swept the dead beetle through the cracked, wooden floorboards.

George physically seems to slump a little, his shoulders releasing the tension that had been held, his head flopping forward as he lets a deep sigh whistle through his nose. There’s sweat running down his temples. He’s exhausted, there’s no doubt about it.  
So Ringo reaches a hand forward slowly, extending his fingers to faintly drift across George’s, gentle and light. George seems to acknowledge the touch, and shuffles forward so he can sit back down, resting his head back against the wall with a hum.  
Of course, John immediately leaps up to take the place of George, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he gazes at the boys. His hair is a little messed up from the sudden movement, his crystal necklace swinging back to hit his chest sharply. In his hand, he’s easily holding the leather bag full of bulging objects.  
“Oh, John, quit yer theatrics now, ye git!” Paul cries, because John’s already grinning like an absolute madman, rummaging dramatically through the contents of the bag as if he’s performing for an audience. When Paul makes to yell again, the brunette drops the act with a sad little pout. Ringo’s holding back a snigger.

John finally pulls a deck of tarot cards out of the bag, alongside with the familiar Ouija board that he had showed off to the boys months ago. The tarot cards are decorated in little black cats, creating a pattern on the back of each large card. They’re rather fancy looking, though the deck has clearly been used over and over.  
“So, m’gettin’ better at narrowing the ghosts down ta positive ones, an’ I’m gettin’ less negative spirits, an’ it’s more smooth when they talk. M’not gunna do a session with the board here, not enough time, bu’ we can do a real quick reading?” John begins to ramble, shuffling through the cards with quick fingers, eyes barely glancing to look at the deck.  
George tiredly lifts an unlit cigarette to Paul’s fingertips, and he quietly thanks the bassist when he lights it. Ringo’s nodding at John though, smiling. He really loves watching the others get passionate over their abilities, even if it may turn out to be dangerous. It’s a learning experience for all of them, and unlike school, it’s actually fun.

“Well, how are we startin’ the reading, dear Johnny boy?” Paul asks, while George nods and puffs a little on his cigarette, smoke drifting up into the air and making the building stink with more of the acrid stench. George’s already looking a shade more energised than he had beforehand. Though it was possibly due to Ringo’s hand resting on his arm, not the cigarette.

They couldn’t lie, it was pretty irritating how rapidly they each became hopelessly drained after a short period of using their abilities. Of course, it was intriguing as to why they even felt exhausted, but it was getting old quickly. If they were all honest, they just wanted to use their powers without ever feeling tired.

“Oh, glad ye asked, Paulie, my sweet angelic boy! Ah, yer the one who’s getting’ a readin’, ye absolute daft ol’ bum,” John says, changing the tone of his voice from ‘sappy’ to ‘sarcastic’ so fast that Paul doesn’t realise he’s even been insulted. A broad smile lights up the brunettes face, his fingertips beginning to emit soft smoke. So George and Ringo watch with wide eyes as John pulls the 72 cards out of the box, the large cards practically slipping through his fingers, but he's quick; he easily catches the cards, lifting them neatly and beginning to shuffle them. In moments, a card sharply flies out, landing upon the wooden floorboards. It’s the Temperance card, which depicts an angel who is both masculine and feminine. The angel balances between one foot on a pile of rocks, and one foot in the water. She pours water between two cups, symbolic of the flow of life.  
John hums, nodding his head and studying the card, his other hand gripping the deck. “S’basically representin’ the need ta stay calm in stressful times, right? An’ ye gotta manage yer emotions, bring in some balance an’ keep composed. Like, don’t.. _fire_ up when shit goes nasty, aye?” There’s a little grin that dances over John’s lips, and George ducks his head to stifle his snicker, cigarette ash falling upon his knee. Paul simply rolls his eyes, shrugging as if to say ‘I’ll try my best’, then flaps his hands in a slightly impatient manner, clearly wanting to see what other cards he would receive.

So, John shuffles the tarot deck once more, eyes closed as he begins to direct his focus on the cards in his hands. He’s murmuring something underneath his breath, something sounding like, “What do you need to improve upon?” Or, “What does he need to improve?” His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he scrunches his eyebrows up, thin fingers drifting over the cards as he shuffles them. Then, without any warning, he’s slowly tugging a card out with extreme care, looking rather satisfied. Paul watches with impatience as John holds the card, turning it over sideways so he hasn’t changed the direction of the card before he pulled it. The card shows a woman bound and blindfolded. Eight swords surround her, seemingly trapping her in place, a symbol of the limiting thoughts that prevent her from moving forward in life.

“Ah, thas’ a reversed eight a’swords, mate.. Swords s’about yer actions, an’ this is tellin’ me that ye’ve been doubtin’ yerself, or holdin’ yerself back from sumthin’. Like, ah, restrictin’ yerself?” John’s suddenly much more serious, speaking with a sense of concern and consolation, clearly wondering what Paul might be going through. He glances across to see that George is studying the card, curious eyes raking over the detailed drawings. But then Paul sucks in a breath. He looks a little anxious.

“I don’ like how hard it is ta control my powers.”

They all know that Paul has struggled the most with his powers. George was possibly the most advanced at controlling his powers, while Ringo and John were continuing to gain more control over their own. But since day one, Paul has found it almost damned impossible. His view on it was:_ ‘Okay, Geo deals with nature an’ life an’ death. Thas’ good. Ringo heals people an’ reads the future, thas’ good. John can become invisible, an’ talks ta spirits. Thas’ nothin’ but awesome. Then there’s fire powers.’_ It was even worse, because he knew that fire is often associated with negative attributes, and was also symbolic as a dangerous thing. He didn’t want to be dangerous.

“You’ll.. You’ll learn. Hey, we migh’ get somewhere with it today!” Ringo encourages brightly, his skin beginning to glow honey yellow again, his eyes twinkling. He’s clearly thinking he’s going up next, but before he can, John clears his throat loudly, standing with his skinny fingers splayed on his hips, looking rather cocky. So Ringo sits back down, and they all gaze up at the witch with confusion. What’s he think he’s doing?  
“Alright, lads, allow me ta show ya sumthin’ absolutely wicked,” John announces with a downright impish grin upon his face, eyes shining with the spark of mischief. Of course, it’d be something ridiculous and teasing, due to John’s sarcastic but loving personality.

And it was indeed, because suddenly, John’s not.. John’s not there anymore. Paul blinks, looking around in confusion, while George furrows his brows, the eight of swords card still hanging between his limp fingertips. Ringo’s in the middle of lighting his cigarette, and it nearly falls from his lips.  
“Where’d h-“ Poor Ringo’s cut off.  
“BOO!” John’s yelling as he suddenly flickers back into full view, though his face is now inches away from Paul’s. Poor Paul lets out a deranged, hysterical scream, causing George and Ringo to startle and emit loud shrieks, but John’s just cackling like a maniac, clumsily scooting back to sit where he had been beforehand, pure delight clear to see upon his face.

“John! No!” Paul cries, a hand pressed firmly upon his chest as if he’s experiencing pain there, though John snickers and sticks out his tongue with a cocky smirk pulling at his thin lips. In seconds, George has recovered from the sudden shock of panic and fear, and lifts his head, squinting over at John with a slight sense of surprise.  
“You used yer invisibility, mate?” George asks, pleasant surprise lacing through his tone. In response, John nods quickly, his body language showing that he’s feeling proud now, rather than mischievous.  
“M’getting’ more comfortable, I used ta never be able to turn visible afterward! Remember?”  
“Yer _clearly_ getting comfortable with it, ye dirty son of a bitch, you!” Paul hisses, rolling his eyes so hard that a vein tightens in his temple. John seems as if he’s about to bite back with more sarcastic jokes and his incredible wit, but Ringo suddenly makes a whining noise, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

“Can I do my bit now?”

John pauses, and quickly shuts his mouth, though he elbows Paul sharply in the ribs. George clears his throat in a light warning, his dark eyes sending the two of them a cutting glare as Ringo shifts to face them all. In seconds, John’s twirling a tarot card upon his fingertips, the smooth surface shining a little in the dimly lit space. George’s fiddling away with a flower that’s sprouted from the floorboards and has wrapped around his foot.

Ringo pulls out a maliciously glinting blade that has a carved, golden handle.

John’s eyes widen in sudden fear, staring at the blade then gazing at Ringo in horror, because he thought this wouldn't happen. They’d never harm eachother, right? Why did it have to be Ringo? Paul’s just shaking, pressed harshly against the wall, jaw dropped. He thought he could trust Ringo. George blinks.  
“Uh, Ringo, wha-“, George begins, but is silenced by Ringo hushing him. Now, there’s truly terrified silence. Ringo’s holding a fucking blade, and they’re utterly dumbfounded and shaken up. After a moment of watching their shocked expressions, Ringo is actually laughing, setting the sharp blade down gently. It shines upon the floorboards, evil and violent.  
“I’m not gunna really hurt ye, ye sillies!”  
Paul swallows thickly.  
“What?”  
“No, I jus’ need me an arm ta cut,” Ringo says, in such a casual way, that the boys are left slack jawed. When Ringo tilts his head to gaze at them, a scowl slides smoothly upon his face, and he sighs, tension flowing out of his shoulders. They’ve been staring at him for the past five minutes, ever since he unsheathed the blade. It looked much more pretty than harmful.  
“I need ta hurt ye, then heal ya ta demonstrate my healing stuff, alright?” Ringo pleads, “I know, I really don’ wanna hurt ye either, but I can’t think of another way ta show ye.”

George chews his lip, then hastily thrusts his arm forward, the vines receding quickly as he turns his head and squeezes his eyes closed tightly. He bites down on his lip, physically tense even if Ringo hasn’t done anything. Paul’s watching with wide eyes, his fingernails being chewed rather frantically. Then he’s blurting out, “This is a bad idea, oh Ritchie, what the hell, don’t hurt him please? Oh, god, oh god-“ before Ringo reaches over, putting his warm hand over Paul’s.  
“Mate, trust me. It’ll be healed in seconds.”

After they've all calmed down a fraction, Ringo picks up the knife, weighing it in his hands with a relaxed hum. George lets out a weak whimper when he peeks over to see Ringo’s holding the shining blade, shoving his face in the crook of his own shoulder.  
When he does it, Ringo’s quick and calculated, but he seems to wince when the blade cuts George’s skin, as if it’s hurting him to do it. George moans weakly, shuddering and hissing from the pain. Ringo ignores the blood, and lifts a hand, which glows brightly as he gently passes it over George’s forearm, taking his time.

When Ringo lifts his hand again, the blood is all gone, even the drips upon the floorboards. The cut is now merely a fresh scar, looking as if it’s been healed for a few days now. Upon seeing the result, George’s jaw drops. John’s scrambling closer, grabbing his arm to inspect the scar even closer, eyes glittering with delight. Meanwhile, Ringo’s putting the blade away as if it never was there in the first place.  
“Wait, Ringo, how’d you get so fuckin’ good?” Paul asks in true astonishment, proudness clear in his warm gaze. Ringo sits back and wraps his arms around himself a little, shrugging his shoulders with a humble smile. “Dunno. But there’s still a scar, so I gotta see if I can get past the scar period, an’ make it look like nothin’ even happened.”  
George seems rather fond of the scar, poking it a little and inspecting it, grinning as he gazes at Ringo. But then Paul shifts, clambering up so he can begin to hurriedly pace around the building, eyes filled with worry. He runs his hands through his hair, looking like he wants to either cry or punch something. The boys quietly watch, understanding exactly why he’s so stressed, and wishing they could help.  
Paul spins on his heel sharply.  
“Can we go down?”

He’s talking about the basement. They seldom went down there, because it was an extremely negative area of energy, and they found it hard to cleanse. They had tried so many times to fully cleanse it, but the air seemed to recharge with more negativity, and it often just proved to be useless.

“Why?” John asks gently, rather concerned, “I don’ want us ta get all negative.”  
Paul chews his lip. He knows how dangerous his powers are, and the large lack of control he has over it. It’s terrifying to him, and he doesn't want to burn their special area, so the basement is the best place for it. But he can’t find it within himself to say that out loud.  
“It’s.. uh, can we jus’ .. go there? We’ll be alright, swear it.”

The basement is freezing. It’s dimly lit by cheap flickering lights that buzz and click, causing the area to flicker before their eyes. The walls begin as plaster, but soon turn into proper cement once they’re fully inside. There’s a metal shelf of old broken tools and sandpaper, and that’s practically the only thing in there, apart from the metal table that rests, icy cold, in the corner. It’s covered in spiderwebs, and Ringo coughs as he accidentally inhales some dust.

But Paul’s already at it, opening his palms as he slowly walks around the basement, watching the flames lick desperately up his fingers and rising into the air, bobbing around as the shadows upon the walls dance along. He stretches his fingers out a little further, so the flames catch and begin to slide smoothly up his forearms. He’s not in pain at all, it’s like there’s only a slight breeze washing over his skin.  
John’s enraptured, as he watches in amazement, now sitting down with the others, deliberately out of Paul’s way. It’s beautiful. Fire is often symbolic of danger and harm, but Paul looks so.. calm. He’s slow as he walks, delicately turning his arms and watching the flames swirling with such a concentrated gaze. His lips are slightly twitching into a smile, and he seems so relaxed and literally in his element. Whenever Paul talks of how dangerous he is, or how bad his control over it is, it’s proved ultimately wrong in this moment.

Paul hums, flicking his finger. A little hissing noise accompanies the tiny ball that flies across the room, whacking against the concrete wall and instantly fizzing out. But then he’s chewing his lip, blowing gently upon his hands and arms, which makes the fire die out pretty easily. Joining the boys, he sits in front of John, while Ringo and George sit beside them both, automatically making up a circle.  
“I don’t.. I can’t do much. S’only if I focus like that, then I don’t fuck up badly,” Paul murmurs, shrugging his shoulders. George rests his head on Ringo’s shoulder with a lazy smile upon his face. He’s not aware of the tiny, minuscule flowers growing down through his hair, it seems. John scoffs. “Shuddup, ye git. Ye did great! Bu’ I dare ya ta light me ciggie again,” He says earnestly, tugging a cigarette from the packet hastily, and shoves it through his lips to clench his teeth around the filter, tilting his face closer to Paul with his hands folded in a prayer position. George and Ringo loudly snigger, but are stopped as Paul quickly throws a pillow at them, messing their hair up. Before it can go any further, John makes a weird urgent sound, like he’s saying “please!’ through his clenched teeth. Paul grumbles and rolls his eyes, though he purposely puts up his flaming middle finger, making George and Ringo cackle loudly, heading towards hysteria.  
Paul grows rather reckless, and shoves his hand close to John’s face without really observing where everything was, so he’s startled when a sudden, terrifying shriek erupts from the guitarist’s lips. He yanks his hand away sharply as John tugs the lit cigarette from his mouth, his other hand fiddling with his eyebrows.  
“Singeing me brows off, Paulie!” John crows, though he’s fighting his laughter. George is crying tears, coughing and choking from his nonstop laughter, while Ringo’s wheezing for breath, body shaking. Paul is horrified by what he’s done, though he doesn’t know if he should be laughing or not.  
In time, they finally calm down.

“Should we jus’ .. get back up there now?”  
“D’ye know tha time?”  
“Ah, only 1pm.”

So with slightly relieved smiles, they leave the chilled basement that makes them all pretty damned uneasy, and are instantly pleased when they enter their special area of the building. Paul crouches in front of the bookshelf, absentmindedly brushing dust off of a shelf. He drags his fingertip over the spines of the books, tilting his head to read what they were. John sits at the dining table, his chair squeaking as he kicks his feet upon the bumpy surface. George peers out of the small windows, shifting the curtains to view the street outside. It’s very deserted. Ringo grabs a few pencils, and settles at the table.  
“George, Paul, c’mon, we gotta hurry this up. Ma wanted me home by 3.” Ringo calls, twirling a pencil in his hand. Everyone soon sits down, and John pulls up his leather bag, digging in it for a minute before passing everyone their journals.

(Well, in actual fact, they’re grimoires. Or a Book of Shadows. Whatever is preferred.)

The grimoires were the one thing they all used. Inside of each was a required few pages, about sabbats, correspondences, certain dates and power lists. But no matter what, the first page was always the page that held a protection blessing over each book. They each used the books to write down information, spells, important discoveries, and often reflections on their craft. Only John had delivered them today, because some of them had left theirs behind previously, and poor John had picked them all up.

George’s book is rather charming, a brown hardcover book bound with green thread, and a pressed flower stuck upon the cover. It’s held together by a thin string of dark blue fabric, tied into a floppy bow. Inside, there’s the required pages, though there’s a full five pages worth of herbs, flowers, and plant information, including the properties of each growing plant, and how to care for them. He also has many pressed flowers in nearly every page. There’s a few messy scribbled illustrations, but George is incredibly proud of it. He’s jotted down a few recipes for tea, making sure to hide the special ingredients.  
John’s book is filled to the brim with plenty of information. It’s thick, many pages crinkled up and sticking out of the sides, but the cover of it is dark grey, wrapped in a stretchy elastic band that holds it tightly closed. It’s got a few deep scratches upon the grey cover, though it doesn’t seem to affect the book. Inside, apart from the important sheets, he has written down the full moon’s phases, and there’s a big section (10 pages) created for the purpose of tarot cards and their many meanings. He’s gotten the major arcana finished, but the minor arcana has approximately 56 cards, and he’s going to take a long while to write them out. It’ll be worth it, though. He’s also written down tips on how to connect better with spirits, and bits of information he knows about the ones he’s met.  
Paul’s grimoire is dusty orange, leaning toward a light brown, but it’s much neater than the other boy's. The corners of the book are only slightly singed, and the pages are tidy. He’s burnt his name as neatly as he could into the cover. Inside, he hasn’t written too much. When they first decided to get the grimoires, Paul thought it would be silly and that he wouldn’t have much to write. Of course, there’s the protection page, and the other bits of information, but Paul’s only written about 6 other pages. One is a list of local animals, and what they need to live, what they don’t like, and what they love. There’s about three pages of nothing but his own emotions and thoughts on the whole situation, and there’s two more pages about what he could use his power for.  
Ringo’s grimoire is a brilliant yellow, though it’s not too pale or too bright. It’s warm, and always brings a smile to the boys faces when they see it. It’s also larger than the other books, bordering on a medium sketchbook size. The cover has photographs of the sunlight on multiple objects, and one of Ringo’s face. Inside, he’s drawn majority of the grimoire. He’s drawn up many sunshines, dogs, crystal balls (just to take the piss), and some bandaids. There’s a reminder in it, reading ‘DON’T OVERWORK YOURSELF!’ in all capital letters. Though, he has a section for recording the happenings that he sees in the future, and it’s pretty full.

Paul suddenly heaves a stack of books up onto the table, while the other three coo over their grimoires with huge smiles. He clears his throat, snapping his fingers to grab their attention.  
“Study time. Get yer pencils, we’re workin’ til 4.”  
“But, Paul! Ma says I’m home by three!”  
“Ah! Some homework fer ya then, Ritchie!”

Ringo groans in disappointment, while George pats his shoulder, a vine coming up to tickle Ringo’s cheek. John gets Paul to light his cigarette (without singeing his eyebrows), and they all get stuck into it, scribbling away while calling out useful information that they could all use.

_(Poor Ringo gets home by after four pm, to the deep annoyance of his parents.)_


	3. Out In The Spotlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fame and touring takes a toll on the witches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am s o sorry this took me damned ages. blame it on exams, school, etc etc and the bitch of a thing called writers block. a good slight cliffhanger at the end, though, huh?  
tumblr: mazzy410

It’s a year later, the seasons drifting through slowing changes, the streets becoming lively, then falling into silence as dawn grew. There’s talk of a band, ‘The Beatles’, made up of four boys with startling energy upon stage and delightfully furious guitar melodies. There’s teenage girls fawning over them, screaming, crying, tearing out their hair-sprayed locks in truly manic excitement. There’s teenage boys, too, often sleeping outside of bustling venues, waiting for the music to begin in a thunderous roar. They all wear their hair in a similar bowl cut fashion, swept slightly to the side to create an illusion of a soft uneven fringe.

‘The Beatles’ were the band that the witches, George, John, Paul and Ringo, had begun.

The fame was instantaneous, record sales shooting up further than the stars in the night sky, fans begging to catch a mere glimpse of the boys, five interviews arranged a day, for days upon days upon days. The world had fallen, _no_, had been _shocked_ into desperate love with The Beatles. It was never ending.The band was all over the newspapers, headlines screaming out, girl's hands grabbing for the continuing news. The Beatles were a worldwide treasure.

The boys were amazed at first.

They bathed and basked in the feeling of being known, being loved, being adored. It was new, it was purely astounding. They hadn't been treated like this before, since all that they ever used to experience was being known as scruffy and ‘_too young_’. So they delighted in this new adventure, sipping expensive wines, answering many questions, being polite and smart. The women that they sometimes slept with were just there for fame, wanting to be able to tell the world they had slept with a Beatle. They also now had a manager, named Brian Epstein. He had a kind face, cheerful eyes and a reassuring smile, but often had a very commanding presence. Brian Epstein was very businesslike, but not in a harsh or cruel way. He seemed as if he wanted the best for the Beatles. The boys were hesitant at first, unsure of how Brian would act toward them. He seemingly enjoyed their music, and they were all rather surprised when they realised he could handle a good joke or two, and there was grins all around.

But the boys were still witches. Even while they swam in the waves of popularity, they were also dealing with their powers. And, to no surprise, the public continued to slander the name of witchcraft, calling it ‘devil worship’ and ‘a crime to mankind’. It was feared. So, they kept their lips sealed, barely catching any time to practice controlling their powers, their grimoires hidden deep down in battered suitcases.

The informational texts that they had studied were all left behind while they traveled the world, gathering piles of dust in their shared brick building that they had previously used weekly. The building was truly deserted now, the homely level that they had practiced in was left as it was last, dust soaring through the air and settling lightly upon the floorboards. The posters upon the walls had rolled up, losing their stick and tumbling down to the ground.

The rest of the previous year had been filled to the brim with practice sessions, researching and trying to figure out what the hell they were all doing. They each had gotten a little better at handling the control of their powers, though it wasn’t perfect. Ringo had sworn to avoid harming objects in order to heal things, simply focusing more upon his interesting predictions of the near future. George had begun to grow a gorgeous array of flowers upon the wall of their space, inviting even more beauty into the room. Paul often went down to the basement, knowing that the boys would understand that he preferred to comfortably practice there. John’s made at least 5 ghosts appear in their space, not all at once. But over time, he’s sat down in nearly dead silence, eyes squeezed shut extremely tight as he focuses his mind on nothing but his intentions. When he first witnesses a pale, silvery spirit, he finds it hard to regulate his breathing, though he felt both fear, wonder and excitement.

But that was a while ago.

It’s the late evening, and the boys are currently in the midst of a rich man’s party, an 'important one’ that they were invited to, simply for an arranged appearance of the extremely famous band. Posh old men pleaded for Brian Epstein to make time for them to attend, ‘It is a highly recommended setting for these young men, it will sharpen their minds and give them a proper sense of direction!” The environment of the party feels quite strange, though. Most likely due to it being held for the old cobbers who play poker with the other old fellas and talk over their wives. It’s truly not being held for the benefit of the younger boys, though that fact doesn't exactly occur to them. The spacious ballroom is now filled to the brim with booming laughter and cigar smoke, thick clouds floating up to the arched ceiling. The people are all over 30, wearing thin wiry glasses that are hanging by chains, though in their hands are held glasses of champagne or a fat smoking cigar. They all look down their pointed noses at the boys, either tossing their heads or looking a bit too interested in them. John chatters away with his award winning grin, cheeky quips and jabs flowing out his mouth like he’s simply breathing air. He’s smooth as he ducks away from the far too proprietorial folks, who reach their hands a little close to his face. Paul isn’t as smooth, using far fewer shots of John’s classic quick wit, simply nodding at the boasting men and women who are progressively growing more and more unstable upon their feet. He just thinks it’s boring. George stays nearest to the main doors, folded arms as he assesses the situation with his dark eyes, trying to warn others to piss off and leave him be. He didn’t want to interact with the people who thought they could push him and his friends around. Though, over by the bar, Ringo already has a lit cigar in his hand, lounging upon a leather armchair with a few other men, playing cards. He replies to their boring inquiries with dry sarcasm, expression never changing. He feels a little posh, which he feels rather disgusting for.

It’s just plain uncomfortable.

But without any warning, there’s a bloodcurdling scream of instant terror, an instinctual scream that the person was not able to repress. Silence falls. After a pause, rippling outward from the centre of the ballroom are quiet disbelieving murmurs and little gasps of nausea. Then, there’s a nasally woman’s voice that cries out in panicked alarm, “_LOOK_!”

There’s a man, possibly an executive director of a blockbuster film, suddenly lifted into the foggy, smoke filled air by his left arm, dangling above the trembling crowd. He’s held up by a thick, thorny vine that wraps tightly around his torso, seemingly from out of nowhere, and it seems to be going toward his throat next, sneaking across his skin. His six thousand dollar suit begins to rip and tear. The crowd is in a state of disbelief, standing around with jaws agape. How was this possible?! Unexpectedly, the man’s head rolls forward, over the vines coiled tight around his throat, as his body suddenly goes limp, floating in the air like a dead corpse. His face is going blue.

Chaos erupts.

The man isn’t dead, simply suffering from a slight amount of suffocation, but the guests react with wrecked screams and cries, the thunderous sound of a million agitated footsteps making the floor vibrate. Nobody stops to grab at the man to pull him to the floor, or even check if he’s alive and well. They all simply run. There’s expensive cigars being dropped with haste, diamond purses and newly bought lipsticks thrown, and a guest even decides to toss out their shoes into the smoky air. Someone shouts for the police to be called. It’s a natural display of pure humanity. It’s a herd of panicked humans, racing for the door in instinctual animalistic terror, in fear of a truly beautiful thing: nature itself.

George wasn’t able to resist the itching urge to cause large amounts of trouble for once. He smoothly slips away from the centre of the ballroom, unseen through the crowd of the rushing people who refuse to get their clothes or makeup ruined. He rests his back against a wall, hitching his knee up so his leg was bent and his foot presses against the brick ballroom wall. He’s grinning a little to himself, delighting in the disturbance he had easily caused with a twitch of his wrist. It was just _so_ easy. He didn’t do it to harm the partygoers, of course not! He just wanted to see this stupid thing over with, and what better way to achieve that than with creepy moving plants? He felt rather proud of his actions, humming pleasantly, but at the same time, George couldn’t ignore the fact that was enforced upon him once again; People naturally feared death or harm. He could have killed that man. The people’s reactions told him that he was capable of becoming dangerous and feared.

He’s trying to ignore his negative imagination, trying to distract himself as he lights a cigarette calmly. But of course, his cigarette is yanked out of his mouth by the burning hot tip, easily fully extinguished by two soft finger pads. _Wouldn’t that hurt..?_ He lifts his head to see Brian Epstein himself. Oh, _shit_. But, Brian doesn't know. Brian doesn't know. Brian _doesn't_ know. He doesn't know, he can’t. The older man’s eyes look a bit curious, even knowing, as they burn into George’s fierce gaze.

“You should have left the premises by now, George, you might have gotten harmed! Just, come on now,” Brian’s smoothly instructing as he grips George’s shoulder and steers him out of the building, heels clicking against the tiled floor. His voice echoes around the mostly empty ballroom, giving it a rather booming effect. The now vacant area is haunting, ringing out a silent voice of unease. When George locks eyes with the other boys outside, they’ve got something judgmental in their searching gaze, pitying. George doesn't miss the flash of proudness in Ringo’s eyes, nor does he ignore Paul trying to hide the giddy twitch of his lips. John just busies himself with his tie, clearing his throat in a businesslike fashion.

George, confused by the mixed emotions he’s witnessed, looks away.

They soon drive up to their hotel in a sleek black vehicle with a purring engine. The old hotel is stories tall, and is already surrounded entirely by screaming fans, over half of them in tears. John sees a poster of his face through the car window, with lipstick kissed all over it. It’s become a bit unsettling, knowing their fans are so infatuated with them. It’s a few seconds before the car will become surrounded as well, so it frantically speeds up to stall at the back of the building, pausing for a few seconds so the boys can stumble out, grabbing their things. Brian guides them to the door without any interference, determined to keep the boys safe, especially after what had just happened.

They get in the building, safe and secure. The hotel room is average as usual, with bowls of fruit and newspapers, ashtrays in each room. It’s more sophisticated than cozy, but there's a piano up against the wall, and a comfortable couch takes up some room. Sitting in the main room, Paul’s smoking a cigarette, his chain bracelet flashing as he lifts his hand to take a drag. John’s searching through his bag, face scrunched up as he ducks his head to peer into the contents of the old fabric sack. Ringo sits up, tilting his head. “What’re ye doin’, dear Johnny?”

But before the boys can go any further, the door bangs open, instantly stopping their previous activity.

“Were any of you hurt?”

It’s Brian again, his worried face shining with sweat as he peeks into the room at the boys. He’s taken off his blazer and tie, now standing in just a white shirt and vest, tucked into the waistband of his pinstripe pants. John hastily stuffs his bag under the nearest chair. Brian strides in, all business and no talk, “I didn’t have the time to check you all properly, come here.”

He moves in a non-stop fashion, clearly ready to head to bed and call it a night, bustling over to Paul and quickly tugging off the bassists coat and rolling up his sleeves, checking his arms and shoulders, asking Paul gently if he had gotten caught in the crowd at all. When Paul shakes his head to say no, Brian gives him a sharp nod, his body relaxing slightly before he moves on to check John, then Ringo, then George. Marching over toward the doorway, he turns on his heel to face the boys once more. “I bid you a good night. Rest well, there’s much more to be done tomorrow. The concert!” He flashes his boys a kind, fatherly smile and nods once more before he leaves to his own room for a long night of rest.

There’s a few moments of silence, until Paul sits back down upon his chintz armchair and turns to gaze at the others with a deep curiosity and contemplation set in his wide eyes. “What happened?”

“What do ye _mean_, what happened?” George replies almost instantaneously, tense. Due to his sudden response, all eyes are now on him, filled with a slight drop of irritation. George sinks lower in his chair, face gone sour and a cigarette becoming quickly lit, smoke rising thickly.

“The.. The man, y’know, Geo, why’d you do it?”

“Don’t ye go lie an’ say ye weren’t bloody grateful, Paul,” George mutters, then adds as an afterthought, “I saw all yer faces before.”

Indeed, they had all thought it was a rather funny thing at the time. A rich snob held up by his arm an’ makin’ a fool of himself? Good comedy. But.. thinking about it, it turned out to be less funny than they thought.

Paul chews his lip in deep thought, fingers trailing down to fiddle with his cold chain bracelet. “Right, bu’ we aren’t supposed to be doing this. Not in _goddamn_ public, even!” He can’t stop his voice from rising sharply, and he feels that familiar tingle in his hands, quickly lifting them off the chair. George’s eyes flicker with a dark anger, and he stares Paul right in the eyes. Ringo tenses, knowing exactly what's coming.

“It’s the end of the day, we didn’t get anythin’ from it, they only wanted us fer our fame! _Like everyone else in the goddamned world!_ For our faces and lips and hands, not our fucking _music_! We work so hard, using over 100 takes fer every damned song! That’s why I did it! To get us out of there! We were jus’ wasting our time!” George is shouting now, hands curled in tight fists, and Ringo swears under his breath-

“Lads, _quit it_.” He says sharply, before anyone could start again. Channeling a little drop of his power into his simple words, he watches as George and Paul seem to ease off and relax in their seats.

There’s more silence.

“Aye lads, up for, uh, sum tarot readin’ again?” John breaks the quiet with a grin, having grabbed his bag and drawn out his pack of sleek cards. The boys all begin to snicker, and scoot their chairs all closer, eager to relax before bed.

Now, it’s the final day of the jam packed tour that’s worn them down to nothing but exhaustion. They don’t say it, but they're increasingly desperate to get back home to their familiar city of Liverpool, the place where they felt less exposed and much more safe. They’ve been everywhere, seeing billions of screaming faces, grabbing hands and signing autographs.

Currently, they’re sat in their dressing room, ready for the 50 minute gig they’ve got. It’s the last one of the day, the last one of the tour, the last one of the year, probably. Hopefully.

Ringo is agitated from overwhelming nerves, fiddling with his thin shoelaces and the pale shining buttons that are sewn onto his white shirt, fingers flying up to situate his tie correctly, before George’s hand reaches over to tap at his thigh, gentle and brief, to let Ringo know that he needs to try and calm down. Paul’s tuning his guitar, nimble fingers dipping between the strings and checking through the setlist, a lit cigarette burning held tight in between his soft lips. John is watching him intently, though he’s tense, his body flickering violently once again, his racing mind falling straight into the biting clasps of anxiety.

“_John_.”

John’s head snaps sharply upward again, and his gaze falls onto George’s prominently featured face, lips curled into a deep frown. He doesn't want this shit to distract him, he’s too busy worrying over the gig. Nervous agitation, the common feeling of pure dread and fear before doing something big. It was eagerly eating away at him, making his fingers shake. “John, mate, yer flickering again. Breathe, focus, an’ we’ll all do well.” Ringo chimes in, lifting a cigarette to his lips, but his warm tone is suddenly slower, slightly calming, though still demanding. It’s ironic that he’s reassuring the others while he has a bad case of backstage nerves. But, even so, he speaks with such soothing conviction that everyone feels a little less stressed without even thinking about it.

They’ve not obviously slipped up at a major concert yet, though they often dealt with reoccurring problems at their many local gigs at the Cavern Club before and after they had properly created the band. Even that time in Hamburg, when Paul had lit a condom on fire in the Kaiserkeller theatre and had gotten himself in jail for a brief period of time. George was once labeled as ‘_flower boy_’, due to a few gigs where his daisies grew down through his hair and lilies began to wrap around his ankles and the guitar neck. It was also a double entendre for a gay slur, which definitely upset Brian, who was indeed gay. The worst time so far for the boys was when Ringo had had a vision, slumping over suddenly onto his drums, with his eyes rolling so far back that the only visible part of them were the whites. Luckily, John covered it up with a little white lie, saying that poor Ringo had had a stroke due to low health.

But now that they’ve been playing to a rapidly increasing amount of fans, they’ve all had to work harder to conceal their powers. Luckily, not one show had had any errors or mistakes of any sort.

So far.

The crowd of animalistic and frantic teenagers had not stopped screaming since 7:45 pm, and the boys were only due to go on at 8:15 pm. The sound of it was more than deafening, shaking the tall walls of the overpacked venue that was clearly not used to holding the millions of its current occupants. It was still frightening, even if they had played over 100 shows by now. As the boys are finally introduced, and the screaming hitches up to an almighty ear-shattering bellow, the four of them walk hastily onto the stage, hands up in a polite wave, while Ringo jogs up to his drum kit, which is held up on a tall riser that looms over the other musicians, shaking away his nerves.

Paul addresses the audience with a courteous hello into the weak microphone, and hurriedly advises them to enjoy the show, before the four of them launch into their biggest hit, ‘_Twist And Shout_’. Rather unsurprisingly, the crowd doesn't lower the cries and screams, so Ringo has to keep a keen eye on the other boys in order to maintain the timekeeping of his drumbeat. As the sold out concert continues onward, and the energy is relentlessly rising, the boys become caught up in the intense music that they’re playing. Sweat runs down their backs and chests as they each sing their hearts out, dark hair sticking to skin. ‘_She Loves You_’ made John and Paul duet nicely and George sang lightly as a backup vocal, soon after George roared into his microphone for his rendition of ‘_Roll Over Beethoven_’, then Ringo had the task of singing ‘_Boys_’, with the other three singing with him as he pounded on the drums, bouncing away with glee. Ringo couldn’t help but beam as the crowd became louder once Paul introduced his song with a cheer of his name.

They were all so enraptured by the thrilling experience of playing their last concert of the tour, that the thought of controlling powers had fully slipped their minds. So by the time the world famous band went through ‘_If I Fell_’, and ‘_I Want To Hold Your Hand_’, odd occurrences began to gain proper visibility.

As George, Paul and John play that iconic first chord for ‘_A Hard Day’s Night_’, the lick of a flame shooting up Paul’s hand was hard to miss. Unknowingly, the boys power through their closing song, and in the duration of it, John’s begun to flicker rapidly, his body visible then gone in the next second, while George’s guitar is almost instantly covered by blooming flowers. Paul’s hands are practically smothered in raging flames. And Ringo’s aware of it all, but unaware of his own glowing skin as he beats mercilessly upon his drum kit. The crowd’s screams dip down briefly, and by the end of the song, the noise is truly uncontrollable with the raw elation the teenagers all felt. Then, the four of them are hit with the realisation of the situation, and in a flash, they’re racing off of the stage, with only a small nervous smile to the crowd is seen as they leave.

Sweating and gasping for breath, the boys sprint into their dressing room, their instruments left for the crew to handle. Nobody says a word to another as they each catch their breath and flop down in multiple chairs. George’s face is pale, with a sheen of sweat coating his skin as he gazes desperately at the ceiling, his chest rapidly rising and falling while he sits upon a chair that was supplied by the venue. Paul’s hurriedly shucking off his suit, soon only clothed in his sweaty white dress shirt and black slacks, wiping his face with his sleeve, while John begins to pace around the dressing room, his whole body glowing red with unease. Ringo’s sat upon a bench that juts out of the wall, his legs swinging underneath, his lips bitten red. That familiar everlasting fear is a thick fog in the room as their paranoid minds begin to fret and overanalyse the situation at hand.

“We did it.”

John suddenly speaks, violently jerking out his glowing red arm toward Paul, who flicks his finger and lights the cigarette in John’s hand with ease. The room is undeniably full of tension, more anger, fear, disappointment and sadness felt there than ever before. Ringo pulls off his blazer, overheating from the soaring temperature, though there’s a fan that blows mildly humid air that brings nobody any relief.

“What?” George asks, though his guilty expression confirms that he knows exactly what John’s talking about. There’s sad, withered daisies growing from his fingertips.

“After 40 sumthin’ tour dates, we fuckin’ _did it_.”

“Yeah,” is all that Paul can say, his voice heavy.

“On tha _last_ goddamned show.”

“Why did we let ourselves get all fuckin’ carried away?” Ringo mumbles miserably, chin digging into his palms as he looks at the others with great desolation in his eyes.

Ignoring Ringo, John spins sharply on his heel, the tip of his cigarette pointed firmly at Paul. “And _you_! You’re the one who stands out tha most because of the _fucking_ fire!”

Paul is clearly hurt and ready to retaliate, though a clear noise quickly ceases the boy's growing anger. 

There’s sudden, heavy, thundering footsteps that stride angrily down the corridor.

“Boys, what in _Heaven sake's_ was that?!”

It’s Brian, chagrined and impatient as he barges into the dressing room. Sweat trickles down the sides of his temples as he folds his arms and stares at his boys. He’s clearly waiting for an explanation, a very good one, at that. The argument that had been previously brewing was forgotten altogether, for each of the musicians now gaze at Brian tentatively. George’s withered daisies are now nowhere to be seen, nor is John flickering or glowing ruby red.

John swallows thickly; the boys haven’t ever seen Brian in such a temper before.

Ringo darts out a hand to try and stop John, but the guitarist abruptly stands and smoothly begins with a cheery and light tone, “Sir, it was right nuthin’, jus’ a trick of those lights! All that energy oughta do at least _sumthin’_ to the overcharged brain!”

Brian’s face quickly turns sour as he lowers his voice to a hiss, “It was in no means just a trick! I saw _exactly_ what happened on that stage, boys, and that wasn’t normal! The press will be in an uproar!”

And in no time at all, John’s dropping the innocent playful act as his sharp eyes narrow, still fired up from the tension between him and Paul, in addition to the heightened energy they all received from the show. His voice suddenly rises to a much louder tone, close to yelling as he harshly snaps, “I DON’T BLOODY CARE WHAT THE PRESS THINKS, EPPY, IT’S ALL ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK, ISN’T IT?”

Paul now rises, standing hesitantly near the two men, as if he was about to intervene, though he watches Brian with a wary, distrustful look upon his usually cheerful face. George and Ringo both stay silent.

Seeing that nobody’s objecting to John’s claims, Brian’s face reddens as he then begins to shout, “You’re not understanding me, boys! I AM _SIMPLY_ _TRYING_ TO PROTECT YOU!”

John makes a flabbergasted sound, shaking his head as if he can’t even comprehend what the older man is saying at all. His body is giving off an angry, thin red glow again. He growls lowly and shoots back, “_HOW_ IN THE _BLOODY HELL_ ARE YOU PROTECTING US? YE DON’ NEED TA PROTECT US FROM ANYTHING!”

“YES, I DO, JOHN!” Brian roars, sweat rolling down his forehead. Paul silently steps closer, his fingertips now flaming brightly. Nobody seems to notice.

John lets out a cynical laugh, head tilted back, then bellows, “LIKE FUCKING _WHAT_?”

Brian staggers over to a chair and sinks down into it.

“_Yourselves_, boys! ..Yourselves.”

Confusion now enters the room. Paul’s arm flings out to whack John roughly in the chest, stopping him from continuing the fight.

“What?” Ringo finally speaks up, uncertainty clear upon his face. George wanders closer to Brian with a curious air to his movements. Brian sucks in a deep breath and exhales heavily, wiping his brow. He smiles sadly to himself.

“I don’t want you to go through what I did, boys,” Brian speaks, and he sounds like he’s reminiscing over a painful memory, defeated and worn down. He’s begging.

“Brian, what-?” George starts, but Brian chuckles sadly and shakes his head.

“Stop. Look at yourselves. John, you’re glowing bright red and flickering like a candle in the wind, George, you smell like roses and fresh air, and that’s nothing compared to those vines growing from your wrists. Paul, you were nearly burning that damned guitar to ashes on stage. Ringo, lad, you’re truly glowing like the sun. And that’s just a tiny amount of the things I’ve seen. I don’t want you to become hurt or captured.” 

“Captured?” Paul asks, in shock.

“Mhm. I was just like you boys when I was younger.”

John chews his lip, then huffs out a deep sigh. “Nope, les’ go ta the hotel and get on the flight home. Can’t fucking deal with this right now, I need a good nap.”

**Author's Note:**

> get hyped folks, shit's gonna get absolutely wild
> 
> (please leave comments, they're so wonderful to get, and i've developed a habit of responding to all of them ghghgh)


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